Salt In The Wound
by SilverStarsAndMoons
Summary: A bit of a crack!fic. Takes place at the end of 1x08 what if Addison had gone with Pete instead of to Naomi? First person POV. PeteAddison oneshot.


She closes the door behind her, so softly that I never actually hear the wood hit the jamb. For a woman who's so incredibly confident with herself, I'm sort of surprised. She holds emotion well, and she snarks like the biggest snob on the face of the earth, but when she's upset, the air around her seems to sink, and although I've vowed to stay at arm's length, I can't help but step towards her.

"Addison?"

"Just don't, Pete." Her voice is soft and tired . . . defeated. In the three months that Addison Montgomery has worked here at Oceanside, I've never heard her sound like that. And I've never seen her shoulders slump, or her jacket trail off her arms. Her heels don't even clack. I stretch out my hand, touch the space between us.

"I won't."

Her blue eyes are sparkling and it takes me a moment to realize that those are tears. "I have had . . ." She stops. "I just can't deal with the banter. With the games. Not today. I just . . . need someone, something. I just need," she finishes simply and turns towards the elevator doors.

I follow her, despite the fact that she's pretty much told me to stay away. "Addison, if it's about that baby –"

"Pete. What part of 'just don't' don't you get? I need to just see . . . someone who understands a little better. Someone who isn't ready to examine my every word or move for hidden meanings."

"What are you talking about, hidden meanings. You're the enigma." My voice is a little sharper than I mean it to be, and I reach out and touch her shoulder, feeling the air between my fingers; feeling the silk of her blouse.

She suddenly sighs and the tears spill over, and I draw her to me.

Holding Addison? It's kind of like holding a very fluttery, very nervous bird. She's shaking slightly; she holds herself off a little, as if afraid that contact with me is going to undermine some sort of system she has with herself. It's funny – Anna was a woman who melted into your arms. I get the feeling Addison can be, but she's almost afraid of me. It makes me wonder what the story is; who hurt her? What has she been through? What won't her pride let her feel?

Red hair spills over my shoulder as she raises her head to stare me in the eyes. "This means nothing," her voice says. Her eyes say, "Help me."

So I kiss her.

Her lips are so soft; she must use that chapstick that I gave her one day after she complained that the air in L.A. was making her lips sore. Her eyes flutter closed; her hand curves around my back, and she relaxes, minimally, in my arms. Then, she pulls away.

"Don't. No."

I sigh. "Okay."

She suddenly lets out a sob and I feel my eyes widen. "What?"

"You believed me?"

She's a mess. "Come on." I put a hand on her back, feeling her start. The elevator door slides open and I guide her inside. When it closes, she slumps against the wall and covers her face. Even though Tilly's not there, I place a hand discreetly over the camera and turn my face away from Addison. She sobs softly for a moment on the way down, but by the time I walk her out to the chilly parking lot, the tears have dried on her cheeks.

I offer her a ride home, simply because I believe she isn't okay to drive. She tries to argue with me. "It's not up to you to take care of me."

"It's not up to you to decide what I can and cannot do."

She stands defiantly and I just get tired. "Okay. Go home, then."

"Reverse psychology." Her face twitches a little and she smiles, a watery, trembling smile that makes my heart melt a little. I put my arms around her again and pull her towards the car, and this time, she gets in.

"This isn't weird?"

"It's not weird. It's . . . different." And her gaze out the window at the starlit night silences any response I could have come up with.

We drive up to her house and I slide the gear into park, but she doesn't move. Instead, she draws a shaky sigh and I decide, here and now, that she's not going to be alone tonight. I turn off the car.

When I think about it later, I'm not really sure how it happened; one moment I was helping her up the stairs and the next we were falling into her hallway, kissing with tongue, but I do remember that I managed to slow it down. Desperation isn't a good way to start a first night, and with everything going on, I didn't want her to regret this.

She shucks off the trailing sweater and kicks off the designer shoes. I want to slow it down, so I unbutton her blouse, taking my time. I reveal her cream-coloured bra and the gentle swell of her stomach before she starts unbuttoning my jeans.

We don't make it to the bed. Everything happens in slow motion on that sort of sheepskin rug she has before the sofa. Her legs are smooth; they rub against mine as I push up her skirt and run the waistband of her panties over my fingers. They're wet and when I feel her hand on me, they get even wetter. She fumbles with the condom until I take it from her hands and do it myself.

When I enter her, she gasps. Her fingernails scratch under my shirt and I try to move rhythmically, following her own movements. My tongue touches one of her nipples and she bucks her hips suddenly; I almost gasp with the sudden, exquisite pain. It's so hard to hold on until she comes; I can't tell if she's faking, but I'm pretty sure that a gasping scream means that it'll do. I come myself, afterwards, with a slight stab of regret.

It feels like many hours pass before I turn to look at her. She's staring at the ceiling and the tears are running down her cheeks.

"I didn't hurt you?" The question is so stupid, but she looks at me, her eyes sapphire-blue in the half-light.

"Not in the way you think."

I wrap my arms around her. "We shouldn't have done this."

In response, her lips meet mine and she whispers against my chin. "No, we should have done this. I needed you, after all."

I sneak out when her hair is tumbled across the pillow and the rainfall of tears finally dried up, around three AM. She may have needed me then, but she won't feel that way in the morning.

I'm not the type of guy who should stay.

I'm not the type of guy who's comfortable with the sting of salt in old wounds.


End file.
